Xenodimensology
by DeusExMachina1
Summary: Harry Potter awakens in the world of Arda, totally perplexed how he got there or how to get home. As beautiful, strange, savage and incredible as this new world is, Harry struggles to find a place in this new realm. And so, it seems, do some other odd people who aren't supposed to be here either. What... in all of Middle-Earth... is going on?


Hello! It's really weird that I'm writing this. After being a long time lurker on this site, I just found myself with a slight hankering to give it a try again. I'm finding myself really craving Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings crossovers at the moment, but so far there have only been a few that have satiated my needs. Most seem long abandoned. So, with plot bunnies boiling, I thought, why not?

Disclaimer: Tolkien, that wonderful strange imaginative fellow, owns the entire world, and alas, I have nothing. Not only that, but JK Rowling is the all knowing matriarch of Harry Potter. So there. I'm poor and berefet. Are you happy now? *Uncontrolled hysteria*

**XENODIMENSOLOGY**

**By Deus Ex Machina**

**Chapter One**

Something was wrong. Something was so very dearly wrong. The ground… it was wet. Damp moistness, sludgy mud. Dew drops clung to the tips of grass. A chill wind shivered leaves and whispered inside tree hollows.

Why was he outside? And why was it raining?

Harry roiled his limbs awake like great weights were pining them down, he suffered and struggled to get them to comply, to push himself up so he could sit and take in his surrounds.

Pain. Pain.

He hissed. Couldn't move.

He resolved himself to start slow. He relaxed completely on the sodden countryside, lying prone for a while, taking the time to just feel his own body. His body had rarely betrayed him before - his abuse from life with the Dursleys, the rigmarole of a war he grew up front and centre in, and the nature of his powerful versatile magic – they had all played their part into forming a body that could take roughness, starvation, and brutality, could take it hard and still find the wiry will to continue. This… utter breakdown… it was unusual. To have been pushed past the point of physical endurance was a sensation unfelt by him for a long time, and to not be able to control his own limbs set an anxiety in him he struggled to control.

Not that he could particularly think straight either.

A thunder-cracking headache ripped through his skull at the slightest provocation. The snarl of his lips, a twitch of his head and pain, pain. Phantom lights squeezed serpentine and elongated behind his eyelids, illusions made by blood vessels contracting in horror of the enormous _painnnnn._

Fingers and toes.

'_Just like in Saint Mungo's'_, he reminded himself, '_check fingers and toes.'_

He attempted a little wiggle, and instantly grew alarmed by how much time and effort it took him to even make those little piggies jostle. That was worrying, but eventually move they did, and he stayed in place flexing each and every digit gently until he felt he could continue his self-diagnostic further.

Next, his chest. He took a deep breath, flaring his nostrils and sucking in as much air as he could. He held it for a beat, lungs inflated to the full and waiting, then slowly released in a long whooshing poof. Good. No problems there. The air came easily and trouble free, the scents of wet earth sliding through his nasal passaged unobstructed, gifting him with scents of wet earth. In fact, it was -delightful. He took a breath through his mouth this time, inhaling full and holding for a beat, then letting it out. Easy. The air though… it tasted strange. Not bad. Just strange. It held a purified vitality he had not experienced before. There was none of the fumes from exhausts, no artificial smells of plastic. Not that he had a lot of contact with these things anymore anyway, now that he was no longer a part of the muggle world, but still, even other background odours like ink, oil, concrete, metal, varnish, fumes, lotions and potions… all of it was gone. The air held a type of purity, laden with a leafy bouquet of natural fragrances that it was, quite simply, utterly lovely.

Harry had never thought about the loveliness of air before.

_PAIN._

Back to diagnostic. He could not bear to move his head, but he clenched and unclenched his jaw a few times, rolling it around his mouth. It helped to relax some of the muscles in his throat, a rush of blood to his temples, prompting a small sigh of fleeting relief.

Thinking about his neck though suddenly struck him with a terrifying thought that made him go ridged. So far he hadn't worked out a reason why he should be in so much pain, why he was struggling to move.

His back…

'_Stay calm, don't start struggling'. _He said it over and over in his head as animalistic black panic blasted through him. It froze him, it stunned him. '_Stay calm, don't panic, stay calm, don't panic'. _A useless mantra. He was already panicking.

Against all rationality, he wrenched himself upright.

Harry screamed, fingers clenched white into the dirt, head thrown back with the force of his angry wounded wail as his torso crooked itself into a sitting position. It was an awesome roar so loud and deep that a flock of birds took to hurried wing in squawking fright. Lightning rods of bone-crunching, bowel-watering, eye-tearing, blood-boiling pain struck through every part of him, battering against the inside of his skin like bludgers. All he could do was sit there, wide-eyed, paralysed, and take it.

He did. He took it. And thanks be to all the saints, as the minutes ticked by, it faded.

He huffed and puffed through the hurtful aftershocks, hissing through his teeth. He cursed, thinking himself a fool – of course his back wasn't broken, he wouldn't have been able to move his toes if it had been. So, not broken, but still not feeling right either. The pain abated little by little as the minutes ticked by, until he felt he could maybe, just maybe, try moving once more.

Harry had no idea what the time was, but it must have taken at least an hour for him to awaken and gain control over his full body again. He rubbed his legs, kneading thigh muscles with cold bony fingers. He slipped his robe off gingerly from his shoulders then lifted his top, checking for any signs of wounds, poking along his ribs, his stomach, his hips. He massaged his scalp through his tangled wild hair, flicking off clumps of mud and dead leaves where they had got stuck between the strands.

Finally, there in the rain lashed landscape, Harry was able to stand up.

He couldn't figure out what had caused his temporary infirmity, nor could he fathom where, precisely, he was. Halfway up a mountain, that much was clear. When he looked up, jagged white peaks blinked down at him from lofty heights. He seemed to be inside a small glen, and thankfully the glen was wide enough to make a break in the forest canopy, allowing him enough of a view through the branches and leaves to let him see the mountainside.

The more he looked the more his hands clenched and brows frowned. It was a tranquil, peaceful scene, as beautiful as any as could be seen on the front of postcard. Could this be the Norwegian fjords? New Zealand? The trouble was, before he had lost consciousness…. he had been in Saudi Arabia.

He was beginning to realise he may have a serious situation on his hands.

He dug around in his robes, groping for his wand. His hand touched nothing but cotton, denim, and flesh.

No. He was an Auror, and he would behave like one. He wouldn't panic again. He straightened up tall and clenched his hands into fists. One, two, three. Calm. Now, look. Just look. If the wand isn't in his robes, then perhaps it simply fell out when he had… well, whatever happened.

Casting around, he had to really try to focus his eyes intently to try and spot his magical stick amongst all the other sticks of the forest. He combed back and forth, shunting under bushes, sticking his hand in root hollows, determined to explore each and every inch of the glen, leaving no stone turned. Thank goodness his glasses were still on his face, at least. Though if he had had a choice to lose one item or the other, he would've ground the spectacles to dust in an instant.

The sun was going down.

"Please, please," he whispered, voice husky and cracking. "Come on, please. My darling, Little Fawkes. Come on here. I need you."

Light was fading rapidly now, the shadows lengthening, deepening, engulfing the world in the fatal trial of night. Somewhere far off, drifting in on a thin wind, was the sound of a pack of wolves set to howling.

Harry growled and scrambled about on his hands and knees. Stick, stick, stick. With every stick his dread increased. A strange place… mysterious circumstances… lost wand…

"GOD PLEASE!" he finally shouted in frustration, slamming his hands on the ground.

Glow. Golden glow.

The relief was balm upon his heart. "Oh, Merlin! Thank you."

Leaping to his feet, he dived over to where his wand lay on the ground emitting a bright happy sunny glow. He snatched it up.

He slipped it between his hands, wrapping his fingers around it like a jewellery expert inspecting a prize gem. Tenderly, he stroked his fingertips up and down its length. "So that's where you've hiding from me. Naughty."

Just touching the enchanted wood made his magic thrum in a heavy pulse, faster than the beat of his heart. His magic rushed and enlarged, soothed and washed. From the very first time he had held it in Ollivanders, touching his wand had always caused a slight reaction from his magic, like the rush of endorphins when a woman touches her baby, or the contented excitement of a dog being petted by its master.

Holding his wand now, it felt like someone had given his magic a dose of viagra.

It practically _seethed_ inside him. Roiling and coiling, a type of vibration he had felt for his entire life now amped up to its maximum and beyond, humming, singing, a hurricane of power contained in veins and muscle. Without thinking, Harry blurted out an incredulous half-laugh, half-yelp.

"What the…" He stared at the wand in his hand. So much was inside him, such potential. If he started glowing himself he wouldn't be surprised, that's how bright and light he felt. He pointed the wand at a large boulder, tentative and unsure. A test. Clearing his throat, he found his voice scratchy, hoarse, full of abrasive dryness when he waved his wand and spoke, "Expel – wait, no." Best to try a simpler one first. "Locomotor?"

The giant boulder shot fifty foot into the air.

"Holy fu-!" So startled was he that he completely lost control of the spell and had to run for his life when the humongous boulder came plummeting straight back down. It landed with an almighty boom, debris and dirt spraying everywhere.

Harry stared at it, mouth slack. Then stared at his wand, mouth still slack.

Well, that was unexpected. Usually, the heavier the object, the more energy and effort was required of his magic. An uncontrolled locomotor spell might send a piece of paper or a cup flying into the air like that, but a two ton boulder?

Unsure what to think or what to do about it, he just, kind of, chose to ignore it. He had his wand. His magic was over-powered for some reason, sure, but not unmanageable. He put his disconcertion on the shelf.

Next issue then; location. Where was he? How did he get here? And most importantly, how does he get back?

It couldn't be more obvious that he wasn't in Saudi Arabia anymore. Had someone on his team portkeyed him as a prank? Unlikely. He knew each and every one of his team personally, had hand selected them as trusted professionals with a high value on their work, ethics, and moral code. It was no simple thing to become an auror, and even more so to make it into the specialised branch where Harry captained. If this was a prank, he would have them punished with utmost severity. Their project in the desert was far too sensitive for tomfoolery.

But, no. His gut instinct told him it wasn't a prank. Or at least, not by them. Besides, a portkey shouldn't have hurt.

No use in musing. What mattered was here and now.

He went to casually spill another spell from his lips, a locator spell, then paused. The wand glinted indigo in the failing sunset. What an innocent sight, sitting on his palm, the glint of encroaching silver moonlight on polished wood. Yet, already his magic surged at just the mere thought of a spell.

Control. He clamped down and squeezed on his magic, forcing it to flow from him in a mere trickle instead of the tsunami it wanted to do.

He balanced the wand on the flat of his hand and carefully said, "Point me, England."

His wand went into a rictus of shaking, trembling, spasming. It pointed not one way or the other, it flipped and flicked about madly, wildly, as though it was having a seizure. Harry immediately cancelled the spell. Tried again. Same thing.

Perhaps… if he was international, the border wards were mucking it up? A ridiculous notion, really. Even if he was illegally inside another country, he should at least be able to use the spell to determine location, even if he did need a visa to physically move between countries. Besides, he had passes to travel under authority to nearly all European countries, as well as America, Canada, China, and India. Unless he was somewhere completely outside his normal routes, like Mongolia or something.

One by one he went through his arsenal. He tried the Point Me spell for Saudi Arabia, London, the USA, Hogwarts, even Privet Drive, though he had no idea why he did that. The thought of that awful place of childhood neglect always spiralled him into an instant black mood. He snorted and shook his head, as though flicking off pestering flies. He dearly wanted to apparate somewhere warm and dry, get back to work, but he couldn't possibly dare to apparate until he figured out what country he was in. Too many delicate politics, barriers, wards, and military vigilance for him to risk causing an incident as the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Point me, compass."

That worked. It spun around in his hand to point to the north. The compass spell always started at north first. In segments, it then started to twitch clockwise around. North-east, East, South-East, South, etc.

He nodded, a slight tired incline of the head. The grooves of stress in his forehead smoothed somewhat. At least this worked.

Totally lost, totally adrift and disorientated, he decided to just be vague.

"Point me, nearest city."

Spin, stop.

There. Its long slim length pointed over and through the mountains, signalling to a horizon far away. Out there, beyond, was civilisation. Whatever city he arrived in, Harry would figure out what to do from there.

Better get going.

AN: Not at all pleased with this chapter, but hey ho. It's really hard to start a crossover fic without having the initial 'mysteriously landing in a strange place' trope. To me, this is a boring starting-off chapter. Hopefully build upwards and onwards now to better, more interesting climes.

Let me know what you think. I will take all reviews into consideration with thoughts and ideas. Always grateful to receive creative criticism. Wait… let me rephrase. Always happy to receive POLITE, DIPLOMATIC, FRIENDLY creative criticism. Be gentle, this is my first time writing in a long time.

Thanks friends!


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